


Boundaries

by shiftylinguini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Boss/Employee Relationship, Cross-Generation Relationship, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Rimming, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini
Summary: Albus is not a reckless man, but Draco makes him want, and what are boundaries for if not to be tested?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maccadole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maccadole/gifts).



> Happy birthday, lovely Maccadole!

***

Draco Malfoy, as Head of The Magical Law and Defined Chaos Department, is Albus Potter’s boss.

He is Albus’s father's age, his father’s height, the thorn in his father’s side. Draco Malfoy is not a good person, not a bad person, not young, not old, and when he is around, Albus cannot look at anything else. He fills the room, his presence tickling the edges of Albus’s periphery no matter where he looks, no matter how much he tries to focus on his work, on the blurring words in front of him. 

Draco is not kind, and he is not nice―Albus has seen him make the interns quiver without even raising his voice―but he is fair, and clever. He is critical, severe, but above all honest, and the first time he tells Albus his work is good, Albus feels his chest swell with pride until he thinks he might burst. 

When Albus sits at home, eating dinner while his parents chatter around him, he thinks of those words. Something quiet and secret grows in his chest, something which is his and his alone, and he cherishes it.

He thinks of the way that Draco looks at him, as he touches himself in bed at night. He thinks of those moments in the early evenings, when it’s just the two of them in the quiet office space. He thinks of those eyes, such a cool and quiet grey, as he watches Albus over the top of his files. Albus moves his hand against himself, thrusting into the curve of his palm as he moans around the pads of his own fingers as he comes. 

He stares at the ceiling, his mind a comforting blank as he wipes his hand on his baby blue sheets and turns to face the wall. Draco makes him _want_ , like nothing and no one ever has before. He makes Albus want to forget his name, his father’s name, Draco Malfoy’s name. Albus is not a reckless person―he simmers, rather than boils―but he falls asleep wondering what would happen if he was. If he did, if he said, if he touched. 

What _if_. 

One brisk evening, Draco presses a glass of amber whisky into his palm and says, “Well done today, Albus. Drink with me?” The question― _what if I, what if he_ ―burns in Albus’s throat as he swallows. Draco watches his face, the dim light of the fire casting flickering shadows around them, and Albus feels hot, and scared, and exhilarated. He wonders why these boundaries exist between them, if they’re as solid as they seem. If Draco can see the cracks appearing in them too. 

As Draco touches his wrist, undoes the simple button there and slides his fingers along Albus’s forearm, his eyes are as sharp as knives and fingers soft as silk. Albus can barely breath, feeling like a thousand fluttering ropes are tightening around his chest. He feels the brush of fingers against the inside of his wrist, and knows in an instant that Draco can see those boundaries, can see the fractures in them just fine; he's the reason they're there. 

When Draco kisses down his spine, slides his hands up the back of his undone shirt and holds him down, Albus presses his face to the cool, dark wood and doesn’t make a sound. When Draco Malfoy tells him he’s a good boy― _so good, Albus, you’re doing so well. Such a perfect thing you are_ ―his thumbs stroke the curve of Albus’s arse as he dips his tongue inside, and Albus melts. Heat curls from the back of his knees to the tips of his fingers, as he spreads his legs and parts his mouth against the mahogany wood. 

_Such a good boy_. 

The desk creaks under their weight as Draco pushes inside him, slowly, forcefully, the burn so foreign and new. Draco grips his hands, holds them at the edge of the desk as he mouths a string of words into damp curls of hair at Albus’s neck. Albus watches the whiskey slosh against the side of his abandoned glass as Draco moves. He hears the desk moving against the floor, feels the edge of hard wood leave dents in his hips, leave marks against his thighs. When he comes, screaming a name he can’t remember, strong palms burn brands into his back, and he forgets why he shouldn't be doing this. 

Afterwards, Draco buttons Albus up. He kisses him high on each cheek, then again in the dip of his throat before he leaves.

***

For weeks, it doesn't happen again.

And then.

***

Albus hadn’t meant to do it, to wear his old Slytherin school tie to work. He’d accidentally grabbed it off the rack as he ran out the door, tied it roughly round his neck as he weaved through the morning commuters. Now, standing in the doorway of the smart and tidy office, he sees something flare in Draco’s eyes, sees them soften then narrow. Albus bites the inside of his cheek and stares.

Albus swallows; the world narrows down to that look in those cool, grey eyes, to that question he sees forming there. _what if I, what if he_. Albus is not a reckless man, but he _wants_ , and he knows what his answer will be. 

As the office closes and the real world disappears, Draco undoes Albus’s tie. His fingers are warm against Albus’s neck, his knuckles brushing against Albus’s sternum through the starched fabric of his shirt. Draco wraps the tie around his own wrists, the green stark against pale skin and darkest, blackest ink. He presses the tie into Albus’s hands, the material cool and silky soft. Albus’s pulse races and his knees shake, but he doesn’t look away. His fingers tremble but his grip is sure and tight. 

Draco whispers in his ear, the words curling around the shell of Albus’s ear, landing in his gut, as terrifying and exhilarating as anything has ever been. Draco smiles at him like honey, as he falls to his knees. He whispers softly as he kisses Albus’s thighs― _perfect, Albus. That’s perfect_ ―before parting his lips and swallowing him down. 

When Draco sits astride him in his high backed chair, guides Albus to push inside, it feels so foreign and so new―so warm and tight and wet―that Albus forgets to breathe. 

He forgets that some stories don't have happy endings. That some names will never be clean and others will always carry the weight of a saviour’s sword. Albus’s hands skid over something silken and soft as he shuts his eyes and moans. He runs his tongue over sweat and ink and salty skin, and forgets why that should matter. 

Draco moves his hips, sets a rhythm that makes Albus’s toes curl, his breath stutter and his shoulders ache. He grips the fallen tie in his hand, twists a fist around it, and feels Draco moan as he moves. Draco tells him he is good― _shh, Albus, that’s it, yes, like that, yes_ ―and Albus feels it to his core.

He forgets his name, his father’s name, Draco Malfoy’s name

***

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love! Come find me on [LJ ](http://shiftylinguini.livejournal.com/profile/)or [tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard)<3


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